Glass
by Banjodog
Summary: Playing on a line of Dumbledore's, this short fic centers on Tom Riddle, and gives an idea of how Voldemort was born...


Glass  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters therein belong to J.K. Rowling. No Copyright infringement is intended.   
  
  
Summary: Playing on a line of Dumbledore's, this short fic is centered on Tom Riddle and the very beginnings of Voldemort.   
  
  
Author's Note: If this type of fic has been done before, I am sorry, but this just popped into my head while I was watching the first Harry Potter movie (isn't the second one cool!?). Dumbledore's words are in // //  
  
  
  
  
  
Winter, 1941  
  
  
  
"Come back here, you rotten kid! Come back here!" an angry voice shouted, shaking the relative tranquility of the night and echoing oddly in the sleeping castle. It would be almost surreal, like a memory of a past event, if it were not for the dark figure, clothed head to foot in a black cloak, darting into a small storage room and shutting the door behind him. He slid to the floor, chuckling softly and very pleased with himself. He had managed to thoroughly anger the school's caretaker, and escape without his identity being realized. A worthy feat, indeed.   
"Come back here! I'll find you! You can't hide!" the caretaker called.  
"Watch me," the figure whispered between laboured breaths.   
He waited for the sound of heavy footfalls to disappear before reaching up to push back his hood. Revealed was a mass of black hair, a face flushed from the chase, and brilliant amber, almost golden eyes. Shivering from the cold, Tom Riddle looked to his right to see a window, some of the glass broken from a long ago accident that had never been repaired. It was no wonder that this room was particularly cold, for the broken glass allowed the frigid winter air to enter so freely, bringing with it masses of snow. Tom sighed as he got to his feet and moved over to the window to look out upon the grounds. It was snowing heavily, but a small sliver of moonlight was all that was needed to reflect upon the white blanket and make it seem almost as bright as day. Tom leaned his forehead against the window, his hands coming up to the broken edges, and reflected on the perfect death that was winter. Everywhere a frozen Nothingness. There could be no greater Nirvana. No peace more perfect than this.   
"Ouch!" Tom gasped as he quickly pulled his hands away. A shard of glass that was somehow still sharp had cut him, and the drops of crimson blood marred the previously unblemished snow. The image surpassed irony and delved straight into terrifying.   
Tom gripped his hand and gritted his teeth against the pain, hoping that no fragment of glass was stuck in his skin. He was about to search the wound when a faint glimmer of tarnished gold caught his eye. He looked up to see a very faint, partial reflection in the frosted window. Painforgotten and curiosity piqued, Tom turned to see a tall object in the far corner of the room, part of its protective sheet having slipped to reveal the edge of a golden frame.   
Brow furrowing, Tom moved towards the object, oblivious to the way his breath solidified in the air, and the dull numbing of his hands and feet. Even the blood had started to freeze against his skin. Tom pushed several other boxes out of the way to reach the subject of his curiosity. He reached up and pulled with white sheet down to reveal a tall, elaborate looking mirror. A decidedly cryptic message adorned the top of the frame, but Tom decided to work it out later, for it was what was within the mirror that had gained his attention. He saw himself, cold and tired in the middle of a winter night, but he also saw wisps of things, like swirling mist that teased his senses before disappearing.   
Tom took a step back to get a better view when the mist began to slow and solidify, forming into a warm and comfortable room. Tom looked over his shoulder, but the room behind him had not changed. Just its reflection. Thoroughly confused, Tom looked back to see himself, sitting beside a roaring fire in a great, expansive office. It looked vaguely familiar, and it took Tom a minute to remember what it was. Tom had been to the Minister of Magic's office once before, for a school project, but he remembered the dimensions rightly enough so he could recognize it in the mirror. The furnishings had changed, of course, to Tom's taste of depth and closeness, but it was still indeed the Minister of Magic's office.   
  
//Back again, Harry? Surely by now, you realize what this mirror does.//  
  
Tom smiled. He was Minister of Magic. A place of prestige and power, where finally he could have control over something. A much better life than the broken down orphanage where everything was dictated to him. A place that was no home of his. Was it possible that this mirror told the future? He had dreamed of being the Minister of Magic, and it was entirely possible...  
  
//Let me give you a hint: the happiest man on earth could look into this mirror and see himself...just as he is.  
  
'So it shows us what we want...whatever we want.'//  
  
Tom had just begun to think about what he would do if he were Minister of Magic when the images around his mirror self began to melt and swirl, becoming something else entirely. It showed him with great magical power....just as the Minister of Magic should have. Great magical power...oh the things he could do....wait. He did not have great magical power...he had the greatest magical power. He was the strongest, most powerful wizard in the world...  
  
//Yes...and no. It shows us nothing less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts...//  
  
Yes, with the greatest power in the world, Tom could be happy, an emotion that had eluded him all his sixteen years. Tom watched with hungry eyes as he saw others, hundreds of thousands of nameless others who bowed at his feet.   
Ideas began to take root.  
Others would fear him.  
Began to grow.  
Others would shake at his name and dare not to speak it, for if you speak of the devil, he shall come.   
  
//But remember, this mirror gives us neither knowledge...nor truth.//  
  
The cold had caused Tom's eyes to go bloodshot, giving the appearance of golden orbs wreathed in flame, but he did not care. All that mattered was before him.  
  
//Men have...wasted away before it//  
  
A strange hunger wrenched at Tom's stomach, and it seemed as though he could feel his magic coursing through every vein. The blood in his eyes seemed to grow, starting a conquest of the gilded rings. Such power...  
  
//Even gone mad.// 


End file.
